


Careful, Sherlock Holmes.

by booksaremyreality



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Depression, Fluff, M/M, Moral Lessons, Suicide, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:46:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksaremyreality/pseuds/booksaremyreality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes meets a girl who gives him some advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Careful, Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for self harm, depression, abuse, and suicide.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were on a date. Well it was sort of a date. John asked Sherlock out for coffee, he’d mumbled his assent and went back to pouring chemicals. John opened his mouth wanting to say something but closed it again knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t answer. So now here they were, side by side on the street, headed towards a hole in the wall coffee place that Harry had recommended. Neither man was talking but the silence was easy, comfortable. The top of John’s shoulder brushed the middle of Sherlock’s upper arm, the wool rasping into the silence that rested between them. Their steps were also the same, an unconscious decision to synchronize their footsteps, making the picture they painted all the more sweeter. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” A female voice called from behind. The two men turned around to see a teenage girl walking towards them. She wore a plain gray t-shirt and a pair of light wash jeans. The bottoms were folded up, the girl was short, just over five feet tall. 

“I am Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock stepped forward and did a quick once over of the girl. From just her outwards appearance he could see her entire childhood. The jeans she had weren’t hers, or they weren’t always. Incredibly old, fifteen years at least, probably passed down from an older sister, possibly even brother. But the jeans were carefully taken care of, not because she loved them but because she didn’t want it to seem like she was poor, which meant that she probably went to a school with a bunch of rich kids. The shirt looked soft, washed and dried hundreds of times, also passed down. Her sneakers had holes in them, ratted an frayed at the edges. Sherlock took a quick look behind her to see that her foot steps had no pattern meaning that the soles of her shows were completely worn down, also old. Ah but there was something else, faint scares on her wrists, poorly hidden by the loose fabric of her shirt. Dozens of neat scars that shown a lighter shade than her pale skin. Self inflicted. Depression, self loathing? It was unclear which it was. 

All of this happened in the space of 15 seconds and John was unaware of Sherlock’s observations. 

“I’m doing a school project on inductive and deductive reasoning and I was wondering if I could interview you. Some of my classmates think what you do is fake.” She asked. “My name’s--” 

“Alexandra, Alex for short.” Alex looked at him, incredulous. 

“How ... how did you know that?” 

“It’s written on your collar, and you seem like the type of girl who likes nicknames.” 

“So it is fake.” She stated. 

“What I do? No. Not at all, the name thing was fairly obvious though.”  
“Prove it.” She said. Uh oh. John knew what was about to happen, someone was about to get insulted and Sherlock would probably get slapped. Before John could drag Sherlock away, he opened his mouth and began talking. 

“Your clothes all old, probably passed down from older siblings, there’s a pencil and notebook in your bag not a laptop, uncommon for people your age. All indications of a poor family, bad upbringing. Single parent household, your mother ... no wait your father. But that’s never been a good thing. The scars on your wrists, self inflicted, but old. You suffered a bad childhood, so bad in fact that you resorted to self harm. I’m going to take a shot in the dark and say that the reason those scars are on your wrist is because of abuse from your father. I’ve just laid your childhood before anyone bored enough to listen in this very street. So, Ms. Alexandra am I a fake?” John gaped at Sherlock, mortified that the man who he had felt an inkling of feeling for had publicly embarrassed this girl. He had ripped her mental scars wide open spilling her secrets out into the groggy London air. The girl had tears shining in her eyes, but none fell. Her hands were trembling slightly, fingers tapping nervously on her jean clad thigh. The air rang with the heaviness of his words. 

“No, no you most certainly aren’t a fake. Let me tell you something Mr. Holmes you better watch that mouth of yours, it’s going to get someone in trouble and it won’t always be you. These scars,” She held up her right hand and jerked the sleeve down to her elbow. “these scars were in fact a product of my childhood, you are correct Mr. Holmes. But they were not self inflicted. My father did this to me.” Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but Alex soldiered on. “Would you like to know why? He wanted to humiliate me. From seventh to eleventh grade he would cut me on my wrists and make me wear short sleeved t-shirts so everyone would see them. I was ostracized, labeled as a freak. Everyone bullied me about it, I developed an eating disorder and little did anyone know I had chronic depression. I wasn’t diagnosed until my senior year of high school and I spent most of my teenage life contemplating suicide. I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. Was it just a bad bout of teenage angst? Or was it just me. You couldn’t possibly know that I’m still battling my chronic depression right at this very moment and who knows I could go home and kill myself tonight. I already have letters. I could do it. So once again, Mr. Holmes, be very very careful what you say and who you sat it too because you never know what’s going to happen.” 

Alex took a deep breath and walked away. Sherlock’s face was impassive, but John could tell that he was affected by the events that had just occurred. 

“I want to go home.” Sherlock said quietly. John nodded slipped his hand into Sherlock’s, who didn’t pull away. He lead him silently back to their apartment. Sherlock composed all night, a haunting melody drifting throughout 221 B. 

The next morning Mrs. Hudson bustled into the apartment and turned on the television. 

“Dears, have you seen the news? Awful just terrible.” There, on the news, was a photo of Alexandra smiling.  
“20 year old Alexandra Rodriguez committed suicide last night. In the middle of the local park with a nine millimeter Glock.” The rest was drowned out by the ringing in Sherlock’s ears. The violin stopped it’s music for a minute but then continued in a more aggressive manner. “A letter addressed to a Sherlock Holmes.” The music stopped all together. Suddenly Sherlock stormed into the the living room, snatched the remote, and turned up the volume. “Yes you heard right along with letters to each of her family members and close friends, a final letter was written to the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock leapt up and rushed out the door. 

“Sherlock!” John called. 

“What in heavens?” Mrs. Hudson peered out the door. 

Later that night John and Sherlock sat on the couch, Sherlock’s head in John’s lap. He ran his fingers through the his ravens nest of hair. 

“It’s not my fault.” Sherlock’s liquid amber voice vibrated into John’s thighs.

“I know.” 

“Liar. You think it’s my fault. But I’m telling you you’re wrong. She told me. In the letter. She said it wasn’t my fault and she didn’t want me to think it is.” 

“That’s good.” 

“I regret what I did John.”

“I know you do.”

“No you don’t. You think I’m a monster. An executioner sending an innocent girl to her death.” 

“Sherlock I don’t think you’re a monster. I know you’re not a monster. I just wish you would show more emotions. For me. So I could know that there’s someone there. Someone that has emotions.” 

“I care about you John.” John smiled, eyes crinkling in the corner. He bent down and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. 

“I care about you too, Sherlock.” 

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism welcome!


End file.
